


Imminence

by TheGracefulBlueCat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asperger's Sherlock Holmes, Autism Spectrum, Autistic Meltdown, Autistic Sherlock Holmes, Danger Night, Don't copy to another site, Drugged Sherlock Holmes, Drugs, Gen, John Watson is a Good Doctor, John is a Mess, Panic Attacks, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock is a Mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:27:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27352696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGracefulBlueCat/pseuds/TheGracefulBlueCat
Summary: When the boys leave Musgrave and Eurus is on her way back to Sherrinford there is one last danger looming ahead.
Comments: 67
Kudos: 170





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sgam76](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgam76/gifts).
  * Inspired by [With a Little Help From My Friends](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11028765) by [sgam76](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgam76/pseuds/sgam76). 



> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.
> 
> Many thanks to Sgam76 for beta-ing this and inspiring me with feedback during the writing process.
> 
> I am also very grateful for @quietlymischievous's help when I had medical questions :)

When they enter 221b, John is beyond tired and he isn't sure how to handle the night they have ahead of them. On one hand, he feels he needs to watch out for Sherlock; on the other, today's events in Sherrinford and his stay in a well have brought him to his limits. The adrenaline is fading and so is his alertness.

Before they left Musgrave, he had called Mrs Hudson, informed her about what had happened. During their conversation John realised she was quite stressed out about the state of the house and the explosion. Although the house had been cleared for use, she had spent the past days at her sister's. Now that the situation was under control and her boys were heading home, she wanted to come home, too. All in all, the damage to the building is not as serious as John thought it would be. The living room is a mess, but the floor and ceiling remained structurally sound. The kitchen had taken damage from the blast and the fire but Sherlock's room and the bathroom are okay and so is John's room and all of Mrs Hudson's areas.

John double-checks if the front door is thoroughly locked before he follows Sherlock up the stairs. John heads directly to his bedroom, fetches a cotton tracksuit, then heads downstairs again to have a shower. While he gets rid of the pond smell, he can't help but listen to his flatmate's every move. Sherlock is rummaging in his room and then puts the kettle on. John hurries.

The moment John pulls on his trousers, he hears Sherlock pass by the bathroom. He pricks up his ears. Sherlock walks on and through the kitchen. That's when John hastily pull his shirt over his head and hurries after him. Sherlock is on the first landing when he catches up to him. The detective is wearing a hoodie and clearly heading for the front door.

"Where are you going?" John asks loudly.

"Out. Back in 30 minutes," Sherlock says, his voice tired and slow. He doesn't turn around.

"What?... Where could you possibly go _now_?" John asks, alarm bells ringing in his head.

"Don't wait up for me," Sherlock replies in a fake cheerful tone John knows all too well. Something is up. The doctor hastens down the last couple of stairs.

Sherlock reaches the front door but when he presses the door handle it doesn't open. He's still fumbling for his keys when John reaches him. With gentle force he drags his friend back into the hallway.

In a misplaced attempt to appear unsuspicious Sherlock smiles at him. John's eyes narrow; he's fully aware that this is a danger night. Besides, Sherlock is currently in no state to do anything on his own.

At that moment, Mrs Hudson enters the hallway, alerted to their presence by their conversation.

"Oh, boys, I am so sorry. Come here." She drags them further away from the door, into the open space of the foyer, and engulfs them both in an awkward group hug.

"God, I am so glad that you're both okay." The tears in her voice are unmistakable.

John is squeezed into Sherlock's side and he can feel his friend trembling. More alarm bells. She lets them go a moment later and John's gaze immediately locks onto Sherlock's face, who is looking through things, not at them.

"We are. No need to worry, it's over now," Sherlock announces. His cheerful tone continues and is in sharp contrast to his appearance. Clearly, Sherlock's mask is on and he's trying to fool them. "My sister is safe and secure and back in Sherrinford. Locked in," he adds.

"Let me make some tea," Mrs Hudson offers.

"That would be lovely," Sherlock smiles at her and she bustles off.

The moment she vanishes, Sherlock has the keys in his hand and is back at the front door. John goes after him.

"Where are you going?" He grabs Sherlock's sleeve.

"Getting some cigarettes from the kiosk down the street," Sherlock replies, shoving the key into the lock.

"No," John states plainly, but Sherlock ignores him and turns the key.

To underline his statement, John wraps his hand around Sherlock's biceps and tightens his grip.

"Not happening," John adds.

Sherlock makes an attempt to wriggle free and uses a bit more force than necessary; that's when John's alarm bells start to blare full force.

"Oi, you need some rest and I need you to stay here. I am too tired to handle any-," John tries to throw in a have-mercy card, but Sherlock interrupts him.

"You don't need to handle anything else tonight, John. Go to bed. You need rest as well," Sherlock says with a reassuring smile. Before he can open the door more than two hands wide, John has jumped forward and blocks it with his foot.

"No!" he states again.

"You don't get it. I need-" Sherlock hisses, his face suddenly a grimace.

"What? What, Sherlock?"

"I need to go out. Now!" Sherlock presses against John, hard.

As gently as possible, John shoves him back into the hall. Sherlock resists, tries to stay put, but it seems he has barely enough energy left to fight John.

"No, you need to stay here!" John insists.

Suddenly, Sherlock does a step back and the pressure John had applied works in his friend's favour. John stumbles and Sherlock frees himself, then heads towards Mrs Hudson's kitchen.

Back door, John realises, a bit too late, and rushes after him.

"Mrs Hudson, don't let him leave!" he yells, by now convinced Sherlock aims to buy drugs. He completely understands his friend's need for oblivion but he can't allow it, not like this.

Halfway into their landlady's kitchen, John on his heels, Sherlock stops dead and turns around again, heading back to the stairwell. It is so sudden John has no chance to react in time. In the middle of the hallway he catches up with Sherlock.

"Stop it," John barks, once more grabbing Sherlock's biceps. This time John is prepared for Sherlock's tries to shake him off.

"Let me go, John."

"And then? Where will you go?" John snaps, his patience wearing thinner now.

"I need something… I need to buy-"

"Drugs?" John interrupts, his tone now over-exaggerated as he holds on to Sherlock's arm.

"Yes, for God's sake! I need some fucking relief! Can you understand that?" Sherlock answers in an equally aggressive tone. His eyes though are speaking a different language. They scamper through the room anxiously, not resting on anything.

"Sorry, no. Can't let you do that!" John responds. Sherlock's tone should have been a warning but it catches John off-guard nevertheless when Sherlock suddenly makes a move. It is violent and full of force. John didn't think Sherlock had it left in him.

With one swift turn of his arm, Sherlock frees himself, angry now. By the time John reacts, Sherlock has thrown the lamp from the side table with one furious movement. The tumult brings Mrs Hudson back to the foyer. John sighs with relief but it's short-lived.

Sherlock dashes towards the door and John is hindered by his hesitation to use real force. He had traumatised Sherlock by beating him into a pulp in the morgue; any kind of violence is an absolute no-go now.

The problem is that currently he has only two options: either allow Sherlock to leave or force him to stay. The way to implement the latter, the only acceptable option, is physical restraint. Sherlock is a black belt and very well-versed in hand-to-hand combat techniques, so John has one chance - and one chance only - and it is based on surprise.

Decision made, John uses one of the restraining techniques he learned in the army. He catches up with him, reaches under Sherlock's right arm with his own right and grabs his friend's left wrist, thereby effectively catching Sherlock between his own arms and John's torso. Next, John uses his left hand to bring Sherlock's skull to the crook of his arm and secures his head to his own shoulder with his left hand.

It is a very effective move when the opponent needs to be able to walk. John drags Sherlock back towards the stairs, taking advantage of the fact that Sherlock needs a few seconds to understand what is actually happening. Just as they reach the bottom of the stairs Sherlock starts to fight.

"Get up the stairs, Sherlock," John barks. That's when his friend starts to fight in earnest, now howling into the crook of John's arm. John is quite sure he's not actually hurting him, just restraining him very effectively. He checks if Sherlock is able to breathe without problems. There is no chance to climb the stairs without Sherlock's compliance. If he fights it, he might send them both tumbling down.

"John? What the hell are you doing?" Mrs Hudson screeches from behind them.

"He's trying to meet a dealer. Can you help me? He's not thinking clearly and not himself," John addresses her in a calm voice. That very second Sherlock kicks his foot against the lowest step of the stairs, using John's body as leverage.

It doesn't catch John off guard. All he has to do is gently turn Sherlock's skull and push down to incapacitate him. Sherlock's body has no other choice than to follow the movement; he is face-down on the ground in less than two seconds. John uses another tactical move to lock him in place.

"Get my bag, please.. and two of his bed sheets," he addresses Mrs Hudson. On his own, with only his elderly landlady as support, there aren't many options. Mycroft is out of commission, too, and Greg is dealing with the aftermath of all the shit that happened today.

"Uh, John?" Mrs Hudson mutters, hesitating.

"Do it," John urges and lifts Sherlock's arm a bit higher when the detective tries to shake him off. Sherlock grunts, struggling helplessly. John is sure he's not causing him pain - as long as Sherlock stays still. Nevertheless, Sherlock starts to show signs of rising agitation.

"Hey mate, relax. I'm not going to hurt you. I just need you to stay put," John reassures him in a gentle voice, using his thumb to stroke Sherlock's skull to get his attention.

The only reaction is that the detective squeezes his eyes shut; moments later his breathing derails. John can feel his breath hitch but doesn't let go. He's seen Sherlock faking tears one too many times to be hasty.

"You're alright, Sherlock. You just need to calm down. You're safe. I won't hurt you. Just relax." It unsettles John to do this, to give Sherlock the impression he is overpowering him. But right now, he can't allow Sherlock to hurt himself. John hates to do this, but he can't allow Sherlock to relapse. His own distress about the entire situation has to wait, though he feels it nevertheless.

Instead of calming down, though, Sherlock starts to gasp and his breathing rate accelerates to a level that indicates an imminent panic attack.

Very slowly John eases his grip, ready to grab him tight again. When Sherlock tries to curl onto his side, John allows the movement but neither lets go nor lets his guard down. The soft noises Sherlock makes are hard to interpret. They certainly could be confused with gasping laughter, although, after the day they had, it was more likely soundless, convulsive sobbing than anything else.

Sherlock needs help. Clearly the situation is going downhill. John can feel the distress Sherlock's body is broadcasting due to their close contact.

While John is still trying to decide how to continue, Mrs Hudson returns, the doctor's bag in her hand. She apparently has forgotten the sheets but if they're lucky, they won't need them.

"Oh, dear," she exclaims and drops the bag next to Sherlock, then kneels down.

"Sherlock?" she asks in a careful voice and stokes his hair back, revealing Sherlock's grimace of pain and distress. There are actual tears in his clenched-shut eyes and with a sigh, John finally releases him entirely, struck by the agony on display. John expects a reproving look from the landlady, but she seems to understand perfectly.

"How do we get him up the stairs?" is her next huffed question. A very good question.

Sherlock's paroxysm of grief makes John feel the need to hug him tight, but he fears it wouldn't be of much help. This amount of trauma won't be healed by momentary physical comfort, this would need months - maybe years - to heal and all they can do at the moment is supply first aid and to be there for him in the long run.

"Oh, Sherlock… Shhh… You're okay," Mrs Hudson croons and kneels beside him. John frowns. If Sherlock freaks out, she might get hurt.

She is definitely distraught, too. She starts stoking his hair and speaking in a low soothing voice to him, although Sherlock makes no sign of being aware of her ministrations.

With clenched teeth, John blows out air forcefully to release a bit of his own tension.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to @quietlymischievous for answering my medical questions about medications.
> 
> Sgam76's feedback on this chapter made it a lot better, so thanks to her for being a great inspiration and giving me feedback about important details.

With clenched teeth, John blows out air forcefully to release a bit of his own tension. The next step was not easy, he had to make a decision.

The best option is probably to give Sherlock a small dose of diazepam to calm him down enough to enable them to climb the stairs and later administer more so he could sleep through the night. If that wasn't enough he might top it off with some antihistamines. 

John fetches his phone from his back pocket and starts dialling Mycroft's number. While they were still in Musgrave, some MI6 EMTs took blood samples to determine if what they had been drugged with had any long-term effects.

"John, what can I do?" a female voice answers. John recognises Anthea immediately.

"Ehm… Is there any chance our blood tests have been completed already?"

"What's going on?" she asks without further introduction; apparently John's state of mind is easy to read just from his voice.

"Sherlock is having a bit of a… breakdown and I would like to give him some medication but first, I need to…"

"I'm on it. I'll get back to you," she interrupts and hangs up. John stares at the phone. Mycroft's PA sounded quite stressed; she's probably up to her neck in organising all that has to happen in the background.

While Mrs Hudson keeps comforting Sherlock, the doctor steps over to his bag and searches through it to see what he has on hand. He unwraps a syringe because he's sure he will use it sooner or later, but is interrupted when Sherlock starts to move again. He tries to get up, making it to a sitting position. The fact that he can't manage more gives John time to put a hand on his shoulder to keep him seated.

"Let me go," Sherlock pants, then - with more force - repeats his demand.

John is having none of it, tightening his grip.

"Stay put, mate," he addresses his friend.

Sherlock flails blindly and starts to yell. "NO! LET ME GO!" It seems to be the initial phase of another struggle to get free. He wrenches himself out of John's grip and tries to stand up but his body is not ready, even his brain lagging behind. Sherlock collapses again, landing on his knees. John uses another tactical move to pin his friend to the ground in a prone position, with his arm twisted upwards. Under normal circumstances John would have a hard time subduing the detective, but Sherlock is uncoordinated and weak.

They are both panting by the time their movements still.

"Just le'me go," Sherlock whines, sounding truly desperate now, then he added a small quiet, "Please…"

"It's alright. You're gonna be okay, Sherlock… It's alright," John soothes but keeps his grip tight to discourage Sherlock from trying again. He is not sure that what is happening is actually truly reaching Sherlock's mind. His intellect seems disconnected somehow, as if he is not really aware. 

The beep of a mobile comes from the other side of the room and he needs a moment to remember he left it on top of the open medical bag.

Mrs Hudson shakes off her surprise and fetches the phone since John has no hands free.

"It's a text, John," she announces.

"Open it," John says, struggling to hold onto Sherlock, who tenses up once more.

"Here," she holds out the phone so John can read the display.

Besides the abbreviated results of the drug tests, the text includes the name of a short-acting medication that won't interfere with anything John plans to administer to his friend. He gives a relieved nod to Mrs Hudson and leans down to Sherlock to see his face. The struggling has stopped. Sherlock resembles a limp heap of gasping clothes.

John needs at least one hand free for what he is about to do. In a normal situation, he would inform a conscious patient what he is doing. The situation is not normal, though. John struggles for a moment with the decision to go against the standards of medical care. The problem is he fears he might be unable to control the situation if Sherlock's mind clears and he puts all he has into buying street-drugs and consuming them. In a way, Sherlock had begged for relief. Drugging him was the relief John could offer. It also might be the only way to keep Sherlock at home though out the night.

So he gestures to the landlady that she has to take over. She understands immediately. He shows her how before he carefully loosens his right-hand grip. He remains on guard. Wordlessly, she replaces his grip with the same manoeuvre he had been using. Next, they switch the other hand. She's a tough woman, prepared to do whatever is necessary. She can be quite badass if she wants to. John trusts her to hold tight if need be, and steps over to his bag. He hurries to draw up some diazepam into the syringe and while doing so watches Sherlock closely, afraid his friend might lash out again.

For the moment, Sherlock doesn't. He doesn't move at all, seemingly overwhelmed by a violent - but silent - crying fit; he seems quite out of it. It dawns on the doctor that this could be the day's second meltdown. During the episode Sherlock had earlier, he smashed a coffin. It was the first time John had witnessed Sherlock losing control like that and he was still shaken by the display of raw emotions. *

He isn't sure his choice of drug is optimal, but a) it had been given to Sherlock before and it had worked; and b) John's first priority is to ensure Sherlock gets the care and rest he needs. If the flight risk wasn't there, John wouldn't use measures this drastic, and allow Sherlock to come out of this naturally. But right now that's not an option; he has no time to search for other solutions. The top priority is to keep Sherlock from further harm.

The doctor unpacks an alcohol wipe and returns to Mrs Hudson's side. She continues verbally comforting Sherlock. Without words, he brings the syringe into the landlady's line of sight to inform her what he is about to do. She bites her lips with a stricken look on her face but then nods.

Mercifully, Sherlock is wearing ratty tracksuit trousers in some odd kind of jeans-style and a hoodie, which makes accessing a suitable muscle a lot easier. The doctor just has to pull down the waistband to reach it. He places his knee carefully on Sherlock's buttocks - ready to put a bit of weight on it should the detective fight - and swipes the area while he watches Sherlock's reaction carefully.

Nothing happens; Sherlock just continues to gasp. John slides the needle into the gluteus muscle, prepared for a reaction - which comes immediately. Sherlock howls, attempting to roll away. The only thing John has to do to pin his pelvis to the ground is shift his own weight a bit; it's effective and it won't hurt. The needle, on the other hand, probably does, because Sherlock is tensing his muscles now and the medication has to b injected deeply into the muscle. Mrs Hudson reacts too and tightens her grip. Although Sherlock becomes quite agitated, he lacks the strength to really fight them.

"It's alright, dear," she shushes while John slowly pushes the medication into Sherlock's body. After he finishes, he throws the syringe into the corner, having no hand free to recap it safely. He'd take care of that later.

Meanwhile, Sherlock starts to make little noises that sound like desperately gulped-back sobs. He also aimlessly tries to shove Mrs Hudson's hands away.

"Stop it, Sherlock. Relax," John orders with a soft voice. For a moment, Sherlock seems to struggle for words, but can't manage to get them out. John puts two of his fingers on Sherlock's neck to monitor his pulse. It's faster than he likes.

"Sherlock, if you don't try to leave, we'll let go of you," John suggests, assuming their touch makes his friend's sensory issues worse. Sherlock doesn't react. After a short wait, John nods at Mrs Hudson to let go of the detective. Sherlock immediately tries to curl up, but John's knee hinders him. Sherlock starts howling, raising his now freed arms to cover his head protectively.

"Oh God." John can't hold back his own distress. The situation reminds him vividly of how Sherlock attempted to shield his head in Culverton's mortuary. John can't help it, he tears up, too; he presses his lips together hard to prevent his face from morphing into the same grimace Sherlock is currently displaying. There is nothing he can do other than silently witness Sherlock's agony, hoping the drug will kick in soon.

He gives Sherlock a bit more leeway after nothing has changed for a few minutes. When Sherlock remains passive, he helps him roll to his side. John's breathing is showing his own distress by then and Mrs Hudson looks up at him in surprise - of course she noticed.

"Go put on the kettle," she suggests in a very British manner but John hesitates. On one hand, he does need a break; on the other, he isn't sure it is a good idea to leave them.

"Oh, for God's sake, John. Go. Take a breather. I can handle this. He will need you soon," she insists.

John walks back to the front door. The key is still in the lock. He turns it twice and then hides it in his trouser pocket. It takes him less than thirty seconds to climb the stairs and find the scorched electric kettle with the hot water Sherlock had heated earlier.

For a moment he stands there, completely lost about what to do. His brain is empty. It takes him a moment to remember that maybe preparing Sherlock's bed would be a good idea. While doing so, he never stops carefully listening for any sounds of distress from downstairs. The bed done, he heads for the bathroom and throws some cold water into his face.

Just as he fetches a bottle of water, suppressed sobbing can be heard and John rushes downstairs. It breaks his heart to hear Sherlock make noises like this. He had heard Sherlock cry, but never so vulnerably, so helplessly, before - and never this audible.

He finds his roommate sitting up against the wall, Mrs Hudson nowhere to be seen. Sherlock is weeping so violently it leaves him fighting for breath. He is sitting with his elbows on his knees and his face hidden by his hands. He is shaking violently and trying to stifle the sounds.

John hunches down next to his friend, careful not to make things worse by touching him.

"Hey mate, how are you doing?"

There is no reaction.

Where the hell has Mrs Hudson gone? Why has she left him alone?

The moment John feels a spark of anger, she returns, a glass filled with a clear liquid in one hand, an old fashioned hot water bottle in the other. She was probably only gone for a few seconds and Sherlock had no key.

She kneels down on Sherlock's other side and gently pushes his shoulders backwards. Sherlock doesn't fight her; maybe he's just too out of it to register what's happening. She places the hot water bottle in his lap and lets go. Sherlock curls around it mechanically.

"I brought some lemonade. Can you please try to drink it?" she addresses him carefully. When he doesn't react she pats the side of his arm. "Sherlock?"

It takes another prompt a few minutes later before Sherlock shakes his head, still hidden behind his hands. John breaths a sigh of relief; he's tremendously relieved that Sherlock is reacting to outside input.

Mrs Hudson holds the glass and gives John a desperate look.

'What now?' she mouths.

All John can do is whisper, "Wait."

The few steps over to the stairs feel like a mile-long walk. John sinks down on the second step, sits there hunched over, rubbing his face. He feels helpless, and getting Sherlock upstairs seems like a tremendous task.

Watching Sherlock's misery and grief is straining, to a degree that makes John feel nauseous. He feels utterly useless and the inactivity worsens it. He wants - needs - to do something to make Sherlock better, but his brain fails to come up with any good suggestions for how to achieve that. The only thing John _could_ do was to knock him out. Allow his body a break from experiencing the horrors of reality and his emotions, which he clearly couldn't handle right now. Sherlock losing control and being completely overwhelmed by his distress twice in a single day is an indication of how dire the situation is. Under no circumstances could John allow him to self-medicate with street drugs.

Nevertheless, John knows from his own experiences with psychological trauma what to expect. Chances are high Sherlock is suffering from some form of shock. His system is flooded with stress hormones at the moment, and the most intense sensation he is experiencing is probably the need for release. The upcoming night will be difficult. Nightmares and intruding memories of the traumatic events are likely to occur - in both of them.

Mrs Hudson kneels beside Sherlock, fighting her impulse to cuddle him. His hands are shaking badly, but his breathing seems to have slowed a bit. Nevertheless, he is still silently crying. John's gaze wanders down to his own hands and they are - albeit very subtly - shaking too.

Maybe it was time for a few soothing words, John decides, then wonders if he should encourage Sherlock to be more vocal in this process. It could be healthier. Some people seemed to find release from being emotionally overwhelmed by screaming out their anguish. Sherlock had done so earlier, so why isn't he now?

It catches them completely off guard when Sherlock suddenly turns to the side and shoves Mrs Hudson out of the way, then makes another determined attempt to reach the door. John is next to the landlady immediately, who has landed ungracefully on her bottom.

"Shit. Are you okay?"

She grimaces but nods, and John goes after Sherlock, who has somehow half staggered, half crawled towards the front door and is now halfway erect and desperately trying to open it. John hasn't thought he had it in him to actually make it to a standing position. But here they were.

"Let's get you upstairs, mate," John says and approaches him carefully. This was Sherlock being cornered. Chances are high he isn't fully aware and would react combatively to being approached too fast. John hopes desperately the drug will abate his agitation soon - or maybe it already has, and that's why Sherlock felt clear enough to make a move.

* * *

* I have written/explained the coffin-scene as an autistic meltdown in my story 'Pain Management 2'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do NOT post my art on other sites/social media or use in any other way without my written permission!
> 
> Colour Ink and ink pen on brown paper, A4.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you @quietlymischievous's for the help with medical questions and answers about drug interactions :)

"Sherlock? Look at me?" John demands while he slowly approaches. For some reason Sherlock fails to understand why the door doesn't open and doesn't make the connection to look for the key. He repeatedly pushes the door handle and tries to pull it open.

When John stops about a metre away from him and carefully reaches out to pat Sherlock's shoulder to make his presence known, Sherlock flinches and jerks back, literally landing himself in the corner between the wall and the door. Panicky little breaths can be heard; nevertheless, John is glad there seems to be no aggression in the huffing.

Wide eyed, Sherlock stares through him, his face wet and grey.

"It's alright, Sherlock. I know you feel like shit at the moment. I want to help you," John tries his best soothing voice, combining it with simple language and the friendliest smile he can muster. But he maintains his distance - at least until Sherlock's knees give way and he starts to slide downwards.

To his own amazement, John actually manages to stop Sherlock's descent by catching him under the armpits. Sherlock's head tilts back and he makes a desperate small noise.

"It's alright, mate. I've got you. You're safe…. It's alright," John grunts and tries to keep Sherlock partially standing. Maybe he can pull Sherlock's arm over his shoulder and they can try to climb the stairs.

It's a bit of work, but finally John manages to straighten them both up and turn towards Mrs Hudson, who is standing in the round arched passageway.

"Okay, Sherlock we're going to move towards our lovely landlady now. Ready? Let's go."

The first step almost brings them both to their knees. Sherlock is like a wet sack and John wonders if it is deliberate.

"Come on, mate. Move," John orders and uses his thigh to shove Sherlock's legs back into position. The second step is easier but John is carrying most of Sherlock's weight. For a brief moment he considers using a fireman's carry to bring him upstairs. Judging by his own exhaustion after fighting for his life in a well for what had felt like hours, this is probably not a good idea, though.

Ponderously, they reach Mrs Hudson, who deftly helps John to keep Sherlock vertical.

"Sherlock, could you help a bit, try to walk on your own?" Mrs Hudson urges. "Sherlock?" She nudges his arm but the detective doesn't react. His eyes are only narrow slits and his face is now completely lax.

There is no chance in hell John can drag Sherlock up the stairs like this. The problem is, almost everyone John would call in a situation like this isn't available. They're all busy with their own share of the day's aftermath. Mycroft has been shipped off somewhere safe, Greg is probably still organizing operations at Musgrave and Molly is babysitting Rosie. He wonders if this was something he could ask of Mike Stamford in the middle of the night - it was close to three in the morning.

"Sherlock, come on, work with me," John asks, a little strained from the weight. "SHERLOCK! Open your eyes," he adds a little louder.

Sherlock jerks and his eyes open for a moment but close almost immediately. He does manage to tense up a bit, though.

"Okay, come on. Let's go," John tries another step and for a moment he thinks they're going now. But Sherlock only turns his back to the wall and a moment later loses all body tension. John is unable to hold him upright and they both slide down the wall. Sherlock ends up in almost the same position he had been in before, sitting with his knees up, back against the wall. John sighs and hears Mrs Hudson muttering curses, which he can't help but laugh about.

Barely ten seconds have passed when John is surprised to hear a noise outside. Someone is shoving a key into the front door's keyhole.

Immediately on high alert, John jumps up. The few people who should have a key were either present or far away. Before John could think of where to find a weapon, two black-suited men enter the hallway.

"Who are you?" John asks, although it dawns on him who could have sent men in this kind of 'uniform'.

"MI6," the first agent answers in a calm deep voice, then adds, "Lautner's Chemosphere." The agent is quite tall and apparently of Indian heritage.

John leans against the wall, blowing out air to release the piled-up tension. 'Lautner's Chemosphere' was one of the passwords Mycroft and Sherlock had chosen before they headed for Sherrinford. Apparently Lautner was an architect who had built space age houses and the Chemosphere was basically a house on a pillar. It means they were safe and at the same time that those men really are MI6 agents. 

"Right," John huffs.

"Oh, good God," Mrs Hudson stammers. "We need help."

"That's why we're here," the second agent says, closing the door behind them. “Ms. Holder sent us.”

"So, what's happening?" the first man wants to know.

"I assume you're aware of the situation," John starts.

"We were briefed in detail," Agent Number One explains. "Does he need an ambulance?"

"Right." John said. "No. I think for now the only help I need is getting him upstairs."

Suddenly, Sherlock starts knocking the back of his head against the wall behind him. At first, John thinks it's accidental, until it happens a second time, with more vigour. Then a third.

"Shit," John curses and moves over to his friend, cupping the back of Sherlock's head with his right hand.

"It's alright, Sherlock. Shhh… It's okay," he whispers and kneels down again.

"Let's get him upstairs. The sooner he can rest in private, the better," the agent announces and John is glad he doesn't have to do any more explaining.

"Yeah," he agrees and puts his left hand on Sherlock's forehead, gently pressing his friend's head back against his right. After living together this long, the doctor knows Sherlock finds a certain amount of pressure in the right place soothing.

"How do we do this? There are kitchen chairs with a metal frame, we could use one of those," John suggests.

"No need, Dr Watson, we have a carry chair with us, it's outside," the second agent announces and heads out the door. A moment later, he re-enters the hall, carrying a lightweight folded carry chair complete with a crawler-like appendage that makes moving patients easy. They wouldn't even break a sweat using this gadget with only two handlers.

John gives the man an astounded but grateful look while he unfolds the chair. They certainly came prepared.

No more than a minute later, the three men lift Sherlock into the chair and strap him in. Sherlock flails weakly, but isn't even able to hold his head up any longer. Nevertheless, he is conscious and now and again John spots a silent tear fall. Shortly after, the two skilled agents shove patient and chair up the stairs, John following with his bag in hand.

They position Sherlock on his bed and replace the hoddie with a pyjama top. The fact that Sherlock had changed into track trousers earlier proves to be an advantage once more, John decides they are comfy enough to sleep in, and Sherlock could use the warmth tonight.

During the gentle manhandling, Sherlock occasionally makes weak tries to evade the touches but seems, overall, only half conscious. Once the agents are sure John can handle the rest on his own, they prepare to leave. On their way out they hand over a handwritten card with contact information and inform John that they will be on standby in a location nearby - with an ambulance - should the need arise. And that they would not allow anyone to enter or to leave the house so the inhabitants could rest in peace. They advise him to call whenever he needs help. John is very grateful for this option and a bit flabbergasted.

Alone again, he examines a now quite docile Sherlock to make sure he's okay. Then he tops off the diazepam and administers a small dose of the antihistamines he has at hand. It will take up to half an hour for the drugs to reach full effect because John - again - injected them intramuscular. After the fight Sherlock had put up earlier, he decided intravenous injection was still not an option.

"I'll stay with him, go back to bed," John suggests to Mrs Hudson, who had been standing in the kitchen the entire time.

"Only if you promise me to wake me should need arise," she objects. "You're quite peaky."

"Alright," John agrees, and only then will she leave.

John feels suddenly very alone with his friend unresponsive on the bed, and very daunted about the upcoming days… hours… He wasn't even sure how to get through the next ten minutes.

At some point Sherlock has rolled away from the door and is now on his side, curled up in a foetal position. His breathing is still rough, which makes John doubt he's fully out yet. Sherlock's mind has probably just shut down somehow, unable to endure the mental distress any longer.

John is indecisive if he should try to talk to him or maybe address the events of the day. The diazepam is working; Sherlock has perceptibly calmed down. With the anxiety numbed, working through some of the day's events might aid healing. Besides, John feels the need to reassure Sherlock that he's safe now.

Just in case, John prepares another syringe of the anxiolytic and muscle relaxing drug. He rounds the bed since Sherlock is lying on the side towards the door and hides the syringe on the dresser, behind a picture frame. His mobile he places on the nightstand next to the rectangular lamp. Trying not to shake the bed any more than necessary he climbs onto the mattress, sitting with his back against the headboard, next to his friend.

He waits a few moments for any reactions and meanwhile opens his senses to Sherlock's body.

A hitched breath now and then, a clogged nose and a fair amount of remaining tension are the most obvious signals he receives.

Sherlock's level of distress remains unchanged. After a few minutes, John raises his arm and reaches over Sherlock's head to place his hand on his friend's shoulder. The position is a bit awkward, but John intends to keep the touch easy and not intrusive, and this is the only way. John waits a bit to give him the chance to object but Sherlock accepts the physical contact without any reaction. After the past hour, Sherlock needs to know he's back in control - at least over everything other than self-medication.

The dark memories of the day linger; in the silence and the dim light of the room, John feels them waiting in the shadows. His own demons might be waiting for him, too.

"Sherlock?" he asks in a low voice, then gently taps the other man's shoulder, just with one finger, to get his attention. "Hey mate, can you hear me?"

John flinches when Sherlock's head nods immediately.

"How are you holding up?" John asks.

The only answer is a dismissive grunt that makes John wonder if Sherlock was just reacting on autopilot or if he was actually listening.

"Okay." John gently rubs the other man's upper arm. "Can we talk about today?"

Another shake of the head that indicates awareness. Nevertheless, John needs more information so he can make sensible decisions later.

"Alright. What you are sensing right now?" John deliberately avoids the word 'feeling' when asking his friend about emotional states; Sherlock insists it's too vague. Sensations, though, are something Sherlock can do.

"Nnumb." It is barely a whisper. "Need…"

"Yeah, I know," John says.

"Hmn… 'nd need t'stop thinkin'."

"Your brain is going a hundred miles an hour…" John guesses and Sherlock nods weakly, then shakes his head. "Right, chained to the launch pad-thing, then?"

Sherlock doesn't answer.

"List the most difficult details about today?" John requires some key parameters for further interaction and to be able to measure Sherlock's remaining level of distress. Also, he wants to be aware of factors that might develop into triggers. He knows that Sherlock can handle things better if he defines the worst elements first, then the least serious ones, before defining everything in between.

Instead of answering, Sherlock curls up tighter and John hears him suck in a deep, shaky breath, as if trying to keep it together.

"You don't have to answer this," John informs him in a calm voice.

Sherlock takes another breath, as if he wants to say something, but instead he starts to tremble badly again and his breathing derails.

"Got it. Bad idea. Feel free to yell at me later."

In an effort to breathe easier Sherlock starts to roll onto his back. He would have fallen off the bed, if John hasn't reached for his pelvis to keep him from rolling too far.

"Easy, the bed's not that big."

Sherlock tries to sit up but John is having none of it, putting gentle pressure on his shoulder.

"No," Sherlock grunts, though it doesn't make a lot of sense.

Keeping Sherlock on the bed is paramount; the medications are messing with his coordination, in addition to the disorientation the meltdown caused.

"It's alright. Relax… It's okay," John soothes. "We had a hell of a day and if you feel you want to talk about it, I'm here. If you don't, that's also fine. Do what you feel is right, Sherlock, but you need to stay in the bed."

To his surprise Sherlock relaxes under his hand and curls up again. The hem of John's shirt is caught between them - at least that's what John thinks happened at first, before he realises Sherlock's right hand is clinging to a bit of the fabric - or maybe his hand got caught in it and he hasn't even realised.

Inhaling slowly and deeply though his open mouth, Sherlock is clearly trying to control his distress, fighting his emotions. It almost seems as if he's in need of physical contact. When his grip tightens, John feels the shirt stretch - and knows it is deliberate.

"Easy… it's okay," John mutters, using his right hand to slowly rub Sherlock's shoulder. "You're safe now."

The answer to that is a short, condescending huff that says clearly how much Sherlock doubts that.

"You can sleep now. Just relax. Let your muscles loosen up," John encourages him.

Sherlock does a few fast breaths in a row and buries his face in the fabric between them.

"Eurgh… You… you drugged me," he slurs almost a minute later.

"Yeah, I did. Better me than you, mate."

"Shi'. Urgh…" the detective protests, then he makes another nervous attempt to roll onto his back, but John's hand stops him again.

"It's alright, Sherlock, just relax. It'll help you sleep and you won't have to think about today for a while…" John continues to rub Sherlock's shoulder. He can feel Sherlock's warm breath through the fabric of his shirt and decides to make sure Sherlock's breathing isn't impaired by it as soon as he drifts off.

"You can sleep. Just allow your mind to drift off. I'll be here. You won't be alone," John assumes Sherlock dreads the possibility of nightmares. Maybe that's one of the reasons why he tried to get his hands on some feel-good chemicals.

John shifts his hand to Sherlock's head, stroking back the curls. He can't help it. The urge to give his friend physical comfort overrides his caution.

"You won't be alone," John repeats. "You hear me?"

Sherlock doesn't react and John stills his hand, then rests it on Sherlock's shoulder.

A few minutes later, John feels his friend relax under his fingers.

"Ghh," Sherlock sighs and the remaining tension seems to flow out of his body.

"You're alright now," John mumbles once more.

**Author's Note:**

> Give me feedback and make me happy :)


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